


holding onto feelings i'm not used to feeling.

by beckhams



Series: football. — ideas. [12]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckhams/pseuds/beckhams
Summary: his mouth is pink and his eyes are wild. and he's tired. his skin is bruising from a rough clash during a match and he's got a cut in his eyebrow.he looks awful.(he looks amazing.)
Relationships: Eric Dier/Jan Vertonghen
Series: football. — ideas. [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733986
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	holding onto feelings i'm not used to feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> jan/Eric is a dying ship and yet here I am. anyways I probably butchered their characterization but jeric makes me go BRRRRR :)

you make dinner one night. pasta with chicken. you followed a recipe from a nutritionist, they had handed it to you with a smile and muttered ' _got to keep you fit_ ' and you pretended like you didn't want to throw it in the rubbish bin. you made pasta.

it was bland and unappealing, it was filling. you at in your living room, watching some drama midday show that you couldn't remember the name of and the plot wasn't very interesting but you couldn't be left alone with your thoughts. because if you were left alone, you'd start thinking about him.

and about how it normally is you and him, sitting at the dinner table with flavourful food and how he would move his foot to rub up and down your calf and how his eyes would brighten and how you would spend the whole night with an ache in your chest.

you finish up, and wash the dishes and you dry them before stacking them away.

you will try a new recipe tomorrow. it will be as bland and unappealing, but it will be new. and maybe you can ask him to come over.

or maybe you can sit alone and try not to let yourself think about him.

**☆**

**{** the sun is hot on the back of your neck, making the fabric of your brand new, match day jersey stick to you, the uncomfortable feeling only adding to your already growing bad mood. the noise of the lads shouting over for the ball only aggravates you more, and the 2-1 score line doesn’t help at all. the ball moves too quick, it moves to slow, the noise is too loud, the fans are too quiet, the sun is too hot, you're too cold. and you mustn't look happy or like you're having any fun at all, but you haven't cared about how you come off to strangers for years and you aren't about to start just because the team can't manage to scrap together a _fucking_ goal. and maybe you're a little more than irritated.

you can already hear the pundits talking in their cosy headquarters, chatting about how out of position you looked, or how awkward you ran with the ball or how you just can't pass, or run, or do anything properly. and then the lads will pat you on the shoulder and say some awkwardly cringy and pinteresty quote about how they're just jealous (although that hardly makes any sense because almost all the pundits are seasoned and awarded retired footballers) and you'll stand there stiffly and sharply nod because you can't think of anything to say.

but, for right now, you're standing on a football pitch, trying to rangle up a scruffy win that will get you _much_ needed points.

and _holy fuck_ is it hot. when did it get that hot? 

maybe you're nervous, or maybe it's the fucking heat that so overwhelming it makes your hands sweat and your skin turn pink. 

the opposition crowd together and pass quickly and tightly and they knit and swindle around the team, pressing them further and further back until you are are practically just guarding the goal to make sure that hugo doesn't have to make any drastic saves or especially to make sure that there isn't a goal that was easy to defend against.

the oppositions striker gets a good hit and you already feel the pit in your stomach growing, ' _that's it, 3-1_.' you think, and you're already done with this match, read to gather yourself together and slump down on the bus and have dele sit next to you, resting his head back and you won't exchange a word with him. and the bus will be silent. and you'll have to deal with the gaffer's tired and depressing team talk. the games already lost. 

you can hear the sound of the ball connecting with someone's foot and it goes soaring across, back towards the middle of the pitch and then the pressing begins again, but luckily, spurs get lucky and somehow manage to find a foothold, weaving and twisting around the opposition, managing to get a goal so scruffy and messy that it should have been taken away from them.

2-2.

you pack in close with the boys, smelling all the sweat and grass and dirt and cologne and _want_ , ambition. when you all separate, you catch a glance at dark auburn hair and the number '5', he turns around when he finally gets into position and, almost like he could sense your eyes, he turns to you and sends a comforting smile. the shirt is pulled tight and his eyes crinkle when he smiles, he's nice to look at, he's more than nice to look at. and you turn your head away before you can embarrass yourself and silently thank the fact you can blame the heat for your hot, pink blushed cheeks.

you hardly even know how to spell his name, you should learn. **}**

**☆**

you read a book one night, something he recommended because he's always reading even when he says he's not, he's always got something tucked away in his suitcase or the bottom of his bag. 

and sometimes he hands one over to you in the locker room, mumbling something of _'I thought about you when I read it, you might like it._ '

and he always makes sure to tell you to take your time, even when he's practically bursting at the seems to ask you what you think about it or if you've finished it yet. 

so you read it. 

he likes books that seem almost like poetry, with hidden meanings and carefully chosen words, with memorable quotes and lines that make you think. 

sometimes it's about love, sometimes it's not. 

sometimes he highlights lines, sometimes he doesn't. 

sometimes he leaves you notes in the margins of pages, sometimes he doesn't. 

and you've read and absorbed every single one he's given you, like a sponge, and sometimes you give a book back and then he sits next to you during lunch and you bicker over who was the best character (he always picks the worst ones!) and you debate on if the ending was good or not. 

and dele sometimes comes and smiles to himself while watching the little argument, almost like he knows something you don't.

**☆**

**{** it's hard to talk to him, you realise after a few weeks. it's not that he's mean or makes you uncomfortable or he's rude. it's just that he always has the aura of knowledge, like he knows everything, like he knows what you you're going to say before you do. 

he always quirks an eyebrow or gives a smirk at you, like he's already figured you out. 

it's hard to talk to him, because although he's figured you out, you can barely tell what he's feeling. happy? sad? disappointed? you just can't tell. 

you can't really tell anything about him. 

(you did learn to spell his name, something you tell him and he quirks an eyebrow like he always does before muttering, "thank you, I'm happy you did." 

and you were living off the high of that simple sentence for the next week.)

he hands over a book and you take it like you always do and you can hear dele next to you saying something about a book club under his breath and you roll your eyes before settling in your seat for the prematch analysis from the gaffer that makes you ready to fall asleep because its always the same points over and over again, week in week out. 

the next time he gives you a book, it's in the morning, he's half asleep and curled in a team branded jacket, he hands over a book and you recognise it. it's supposed to be very thought provoking about love and life and how humans are deep down inside. 

"you don't have to read it." he says, his voice tired. "I know you don't like thinking about all that." 

and you, for once, are the one to raise an eyebrow. you're sitting in the lounge room, on the sofa watching an interview on sky sport, gary neville and jamie carragher are going off on another one of their rants.

_I know you don't like thinking about all that._

he's right. you don't. it makes your heart hurt and it makes your skin itch to think about life and how it folds around you and you can't do anything to stop it. it makes your heart sick when you think about how quickly love can be taken away. 

_you don't like thinking about all that._

"how did you know."

he smiles. "you read quickly and don't really talk about stuff like that. normally when I give it to people they start talking about how short life is in the grand scheme of things."

and he says this like he's so sick of people saying that to him, like he's had to deal with people saying it before. 

"but not me."

"but not you."

his mouth is pink and his eyes are wild. and he's tired. his skin is bruising from a rough clash during a match and he's got a cut in his eyebrow. 

he looks awful. 

(he looks amazing.)

and next time he doesn't give you another thought provoking or poetry book, instead he gives you one about a little girl going missing and then she gets found. but she's not quite the same as before. and you wonder if that's another allegorical book or if it's genuinely about a mystery. jan doesn't say, he just presses the book further into your hands. 

and you give him one about cheerleaders. and when he raises his eyebrow, you say ' _they murder someone_ ', he smiles and accepts it. 

_I know you don't like thinking about all that._

his hands are skinny and sometimes you watch as he writes himself notes in the margins, and sometime he let's you read them. and sometimes you don't, you just watch his hands. 

sometimes you sit side by side in the lounge, reading. and sometimes dele comes in and he plops down beside you and smirks to himself before resting his head on your shoulder. 

and you miss the glare jan sends to dele because you're too caught up in the pages. the noise of sky sports and transfers melts away, especially when you finally feel his arm against yours, resting there. 

and it's the first time he's touched you outside of the pitch. it shouldn't give you the adrenaline rush it does. 

_I know you don't like thinking about all that._

_I know you do, jan._ **}**

**☆**

he's quiet but loud. quiet in that he doesn't say much, except what's necessary because he can say all he needs to in a quirk of an eyebrow or the roll of his eyes or a smirk or the way his hands flex. 

he's quiet, in that he doesn't speak too much, at least not with you. you've heard that he's talkative with mousa or with toby but you suppose he just doesn't have much to say to you. 

he's loud in how he demands attention just by walking to a room, by smiling a certain way, by patting you on the shoulder. 

he _makes_ you notice him even when there's nothing to notice. (except for how the sun shines on his hair and how his eyes brighten and how his cheeks are always slightly flushed.)

**{** you don't like to think about it to much, you don't like to think about jan, you don't like to think about the soft curve of his smile and how his eyes light up and you don't like to think about the dips of his collarbone or the muscle of his abdomin. and you don't like to think about jan.

the sun is hot and heavy and it's a thursday afternoon, your legs are stiff and sore but when are they not. he plops down next to you on the grass and his face is completely blushed and he's got grass in his hair and you can already see the bruises forming on his knees and calfs from rough tackles and misplaced metal studs. 

"hey." he says, taking the water bottle from your hand. (you were going to take a drink from it but you let him have it). 

"hey." you say back. he flops onto his back and let's out a sigh, tossing his arm over his eyes to block out the sun. 

"it's so fucking hot." he's saying, but you're staring at his lips and you probably should look away unless you want dele in your ear for the next week teasing you for it. "I'm belgian. we aren't made for the heat."

"neither are the english." 

he let's out a hum. you watch the training match in front of you and try not to look at the sliver of skin showing from how his shirt is pulled up. you really try. 

his legs are bent at the knees, and his knee knocks against yours. and his skin is scorching, but maybe you made that up, because it could be below zero and you'd think his skin was hot. 

he pulls himself up to be sitting, and instead his shoulder knocks against yours, "you playing next match, dier?" 

you make a noise, neither denying or confirming. "maybe." 

"you're so mysterious." he says with a small laugh. 

maybe. **}**

he sits next to you during lunch, and his elbow knocks against yours, and yours knocks against his. and at one point you accidentally drink from his glass and then he accidently uses your fork. and you both pretend like it never happened. 

sometimes, he gets headaches. headaches so bad he can't even wait and sweat them out, he can't even run or walk and eat. sometimes, he has headaches so bad that all he can do it rest, lay in bed and hope and pray for it to be over.

sometimes, you hear him pacing in his room beside yours. sometimes, you hear his quiet mutters and harsh footsteps if you try listen enough. sometimes, you can hear him sigh before climbing into bed.

you always know he won't be in training the next day. 

**{** and when you get paired up for a hotel room, you immediately go and shower, try to scrub off the feeling building inside, trying to scrub away the ache inside of you.

and when you come out, he's already picked a bed and is sat on the ground in front of the sofa, watching some show in a foreign language and he's changed out of his team branded clothes into a jumper and shorts.

the ache comes back. you should take another shower. **}**

**☆**

his hands move like he has all the control, and his fingers fit and curl into your hair, yanking your head up. his mouth is hot and wet, and your hands feel too big and clumsy for his waist but he doesn't push you off. 

and you try, try so desperately to make this good for him. _giving, giving, giving._

and he's trying to make it good for you, and it's a mix of _please, please, please_. and _I can't take anymore._ and you don't know where to stop or where to begin. 

you can feel his ribs and where his skin is pulled over his bones and his mouth is hot against your neck, and you never know how to make him feel good. you never know what to do. how he feels, because his eyes are guarded and his hands flex on your shoulders. 

_tell me._

_tell me what you're thinking._

because it's not sex. it's not ever just sex, it's about wanting. wanting to know what he's thinking, how he's feeling. wanting to feel his heart in your hands and feeling his solid bones break and it's about feeling his heated skin and pushing back his hair and swallowing him whole. 

and your hands are clumsy but his insides are hot and pink and he arches into your hands, and he whispers and you try, try so hard to make it good. make it worthwhile. 

make him come back. 

you both don't talk about it afterwards. actually, he doesn't. and you've always followed his lead, so you don't. you don't say a word about how you pressed him open and swallowed him whole and how his chest heaved under your palm and how you could feel his heart hammering. 

he doesn't say anything about the bite marks you left or how you made him crumble, how his arm hooked around your neck to bring you closer. he doesn't say anything about that. 

and you don't say anything either. 

**☆**

**{** he invites himself over one day. his eyes look tired and his feet move quickly and he's dumping his stuff and shuffling out of his shoes at the doorway. and he's tired. 

"hi."

"hi." you say back. and suddenly you feel out of place in your own home. like the walls are too tight but there's too much space. 

and maybe you just want him closer. 

"do you want something to eat?" 

and he nods. you start preparing something quick and easy because he's seated on the sofa looking like he's about seven seconds away from passing out. 

his knuckles are bruised, and the junction where his wrist meets his thumb. the dark purple stares at you while you cut and chop and heat up.

you eat in silence but you watch him, and he watches you.

he spends the night, he sleeps in the same bed as you. because apparently, he can't talk about it but he can slip into bed with you and lean over to kiss you on the corner of your mouth.

apparently, he can tug you on top of him and let you run your hands up and down his sides. and apparently, he can let you hold his thighs open. 

and apparently, you still can't talk about it. **}**

you allow yourself to have a minute to think about what it would be like to live with him. if it would be lounging on sofas, eating homemade food and gossiping, laughing, watching cheesy soap operas and inviting over teammates. 

or if it would be awkward. silent and just managing to bare each other. maybe what makes jan exciting is that you don't actually know him. his depth seems endless because you haven't dove in. maybe it would be passing by in the hallways and sleeping in a cold bed.

you guess you'll never know.


End file.
